


Quietly Yours

by WriteNotFight



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Epistolary, Jamilton - Freeform, Love Letters, M/M, No Smut, flowery language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7194716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteNotFight/pseuds/WriteNotFight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton spent a quiet, intimate Christmas at Monticello, but he has since returned to the capital in the hopes of pushing more financial legislation through Congress. Left behind in Virginia, Jefferson writes letters urging his love and political rival to take a break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In a world so full of hate and homophobia, thanks for being the nerds who read sappy gay love stories on the internet.

My dearest Alexander,

Monticello reeks of you, and so I think of you a thousand times a day. 

There is the couch where we lay tangled together for hours, there are the gardens where we ate picnics and talked politics, here where I am sitting this pale gray morning is the bed, my bed, our bed, where so much occurred. You must come back here someday. I dare not request your immediate presence, as I understand your political success has far exceeded mine, and thus you have become an extremely busy man. Yet I think it reasonable to ask that between meetings and essays, arguments and conferences, triumphs and defeats, you occasionally think of me. I miss you immensely and constantly, Alexander. My heart is heavy with the supposition that the same longing does not plague you. 

Besides your stinging absence, the rest is well in Virginia. I regret that your sole visit here occurred in the darkness and cruelty of winter; Monticello is at its brightest in the spring. The poppies in the garden are just beginning to bloom, and the buds on the poplar trees will open any day now. I take my walks in the evenings… Remember the one terrible afternoon we attempted to walk the grounds together? Not a quarter of an hour in, and the wind began to batter us. Then the snow came with it, and in the harshness of the weather we could barely find our way to the door of the main house. But then, of course, there was afterwards. Soft conversation and hot tea by the fire, worth all our trouble. My very favorite night seemed to last for days, all illuminating, all immense warmth and comfort. Alex, I like to think that night you learned that there is merit and wisdom in the quiet and not only the bold. I expect also that in the midst of your current political quarrels, you could use a reminder of that lesson now.

Darling, write well. Fight well. Work tirelessly on this nation we’ve made as I lie back against heaps of pillows and selfishly take my vacation. I could end this letter with an extensive declaration of my love, but like you I must recognize that there is a time for lecturing and a time for silence. 

Quietly yours,  
Thomas

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Thomas, my dear,

Surely you could have described my lingering, ghostly presence in Monticello as more romantic than “reeking”. I prefer to imagine that my memory smells as lovely as your garden likely does in the springtime. 

Oh Thomas, how I would love to exist in Virginia, next to you on the couch or in your bed on a pale pleasant morning, as more than a hollow memory. It pains me that you assume I never think of you. My wish every second of every meeting is to slip away, to make the journey to Virginia and see your face once again. I come home to a featureless, harshly silent apartment, and dream on the rare nights I get the luxury of sleeping that I am safe in your strong embrace. Yet following one’s dreams is hardly ever practical. The nation needs me now more than ever, due to my tendency to speak both loudly and out of turn. Boldness may not be suitable for the whole of life, but politics necessitates it.

I must admit, the term “vacation” sends horrified chills down my spine. I pray you utilize the intelligence God has granted you, rather than waste away the weeks gazing at flowers. May I remind you that poppies will bloom whether or not you are looking at them. You must write something, and not only love letters to a largely unavailable man who barely has time to respond. You must make your opinions known, for that is the very least one can do in this life to affect meaningful change. (Your opinions are for the most part unfounded, but that is besides the point; I will refute your discourse after you research and write it down.) 

One last lament: You think me an imbecile, and I do not appreciate it. My love, of course the events surrounding Christmas in Monticello are as clear in my mind as if they occurred yesterday. I shared a bed with my enemy, a man I'd despised since the beginning. More importantly, I fell in love for the first time. You think I would forget running through the storm hand in hand with you? And afterward, the gentle firelight against your face, the warmth of your lips against mine? Of course I remember. I am an intelligent man; I do not let gold slip through my fingers with the sand. 

Please respond to this letter as soon as is convenient. I know that we disagree about the role of silence, but I trust we both understand the rancid emptiness that would result from an extended lack of correspondence between us.

Boldly and with love,  
Alexander


	2. Chapter 2

My dearest Alexander, 

Do not lie to yourself. You smell of stubbornness and sweat more than you smell of flowers. All the more reason I crave your presence here: Flowers I possess in the thousands, all in rows and patterns, but you are an unreachable puzzle that refuses to be solved. I could use a challenge; I could use someone who talks back. 

You write, as I do, of loneliness. I admit the situation you described sounds much worse to me than time spent resting. Vacation is not a waste, Alexander, and neither is admiring the beauty of the outdoors or the beauty of another person. The true waste is letting your life pass by as you bury yourself in work. For when you are on death’s door, what comfort will a stack of books you’ve written be? Would you not rather have loved ones by your side, with whom you have spent observant, content days? 

That being said, I commend the work into which you throw yourself with such passion and vehemence. I believe we would both do well to strike a balance between writing and relaxation. I urge you only to breathe. 

Attached are two drafts of essays I plan to publish in the distant future. One examines the merits of an agriculture-based society, and the other focuses on the perils of economic dominance by Wall Street and large businesses. These are sensitive topics with which you likely disagree, but I would appreciate your taking a second look and perhaps correcting the occasional error in grammar or syntax. To an extent, Alexander, I do value your opinion. 

Now that I have provided you with ammunition for our next arguments, I will move on to a set of issues that concerns you more directly. Lafayette came by this morning. We spoke of the two great problematic legends we have in common -- France, and you. I found it interesting that our discussion of French politics remained courteous and diplomatic, with Lafayette pretending to forgive America’s neutrality, yet when the conversation shifted to Alexander Hamilton he was quick to state his exact opinion. Frankly, Alexander, it seems we overestimated the secrecy of our relationship. According to Lafayette, any man acquainted with both of us is aware that we are lovers more than enemies. When he informed me of this, I only laughed, but he became serious and warned me to be careful. “The man is never satisfied,” were his words, muttered between sips of iced tea. “Mon ami, Hamilton is extraordinary, but you will not be enough for him. No project, cause, or person can be.” 

Lafayette’s admonition stayed with me long after he left. Though I would not go as far as to agree with him, I do wonder if his statement held some truth. After all, in comparison to numerous charitable projects and national undertakings, I am far less worthy of your time and energy. Perhaps on some other day, when the nation demands slightly less of you, we can discuss this concern face to face.

In the meantime, my darling, stop. Smell the flowers and appreciate the people around you. Pause your dissatisfaction for a single second, think of me, and remember those moments in the winter when perhaps you felt complete. Then return to your furious argumentation with confidence, knowing that you derive your strength not from political victories but from love. 

I love you. I am satisfied. I hope that can be enough.

Sincerely,   
Thomas

\------------------------------------------------------------

Thomas, my love,

At the close of a distressing day, I expect to retreat to the sweet comfort of your words, yet your letter distresses me further and your essays pull me into such a deep depression that I can scarcely pull myself out of it by morning. In times like these, I am reminded why we began as enemies. 

You have provided me with many points to address, the first of which being the misguided contents of your essays. Though they are well-written and competently argued, perhaps some of your most coherent work, your failure to grasp even the rudiments of economics perturbs me to the extent that I feel embarrassed to be corresponding with you. I suggest you see the margins of your work for edits, as I have attached the originals with my comments. However, abandoning your essays completely and instead reading the theories of Adam Smith would be far more worth your time. 

Secondly, I grow tired of your musings on the glories of a quiet life. A stack of books may not be useful to me on my deathbed, but ideas undoubtedly have the power to revive a nation on the verge of death. I devote my limited time to a cause greater than myself, and for this reason I cannot frequently indulge in rest, travel, or you, my dear Thomas. 

Yet be not afraid: I love you. Let Gilbert ramble on about satisfaction and contentment, let him claim I am the only man with any ambition, but I assure you he knows nothing. Any man who so much as participates in his community possesses concerns greater in scope than romance. Do you see us forgetting to pen letters to our lovers, or focusing so intently on the work before us that we fail to dream of the warmth and simplicity of past encounters? I am only human, my dear. When you cut me, I bleed. As such, when you take me to bed or so much as brush your hand against mine, I remember. Your insecurity on this matter, much like your political ideology, is supported by neither evidence nor common sense. 

Finally, a minor incident occurred this morning which I must account. Every day I carry on my person a particular letter which holds immense sentimental value. This letter was penned by my barely literate mother in the chaotic last days of her life, and thus it understandably lacks clarity as well as grammatical application. I arrived early this morning to the capital and was drafting plans regarding the formation of the national bank, when a certain Secretary of War noticed the letter on my desk (where I set it for inspiration during particularly tedious tasks) and took the liberty of reading it in its entirety. Charles Lee then proceeded to act as a small child, taunting me mercilessly about the letter’s, and by extension my mother’s, ineptitude. He went so far as to theorize that because of my lowly upbringing, I am incapable of effectively contributing to the nation’s financial system. I believe that out of sheer boredom and hatred, Lee would have taken up the issue with Washington and perhaps complained to the whole of the cabinet had I not silenced him by hitting him in the head with a nearby book. 

Lee remained quiet and dizzy for the rest of the day. However, I found myself almost equally debilitated by the event, and was unable to write a word from morning until now, in the waning evening, when my pen is finally being put to use. I find no value or intellect in Lee’s insults, yet somehow I allow the words of another to halt my own speech completely. 

I have enclosed my mother’s letter in the hopes that it will be safe in Monticello from prying, irreverent eyes. I would like to extend the same privacy to myself, but at moment I am desperately needed here. 

Enjoy your time and your space, Thomas. If you must fill silence with thought, please contemplate and work rather than worry. 

Yours always,  
Alexander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles Lee wasn't Secretary of War at the same time as TJeff and AHam were in the cabinet, but he WAS Secretary of War at one point! And you know he’s still bitter about the duel in Act One. So pretend it works.


	3. Chapter 3

Darling Alexander,  
As I rite this we are both near Death I cannot imagine a Pane worse than this not only to be Dying but to see my child so ill as well I pray to the Lord you will get threw even if I do not That is why I rite to you now in the hope that you will read this if you Sirvive and I am gone Alexander be brave I love you I see so much lite and promise in you Do not lose faith my son do not sufer quietly Make a Life for your self I beg you do not be like I was  
Your mother

\------------------------------------------------------------

My dearest Alexander, 

I long for you more and more as the pain between the lines of your letters intensifies. You account horrible events, admit dark anxieties, cross out entire pages of my essays with an angry pen, and all the while expect me not to worry. Alexander, though I expect I am neither the first nor the last to take note of it, I must point out that you are a baffling man. 

Your “edits” and “comments” on the drafts I sent instill within me an intense fear for both the future of our nation and your mental well-being. If I remember correctly, I requested simple grammatical edits to the drafts, but as I examine your oppressive critiques I cannot help but notice that entire paragraphs and pages have been slashed out. In addition, your comments, which you claimed in your previous letter could be found “in the margins”, stray so far into the original paragraphs that I am forced to accept your intent was not so much to improve my writing as to obliterate it, and replace it with your own opposing ideas. How mistaken I was to suppose that a learned man such as yourself would comprehend the subtle difference between editing and vandalism. Either way I will not be sending you additional drafts, perhaps ever again. 

On a softer note, your mother’s letter is safe in a locked drawer of my desk, among my most important documents. I regret that Lee selected such a personal mode of attack, and that he succeeded in slowing the infinite font of creation and destruction that apparently composes your overworked mind. After all, you have so many faults, from a grossly inflated self-image to an inconvenient ability to wholeheartedly despise the writings of men whom you also reportedly love. Lee could have complained reasonably about any of your very real failings, and yet, he interpreted your most impressive feat as a shortcoming. From what I understand, your upbringing, your journey to this country, and your fight to educate yourself are some of the most formative aspects of your past. They are not shameful; they are tribulations which forced you into resilience and eloquence. Charles Lee is a man of war, bored of peace. I advise you not to take his petty remarks seriously. 

Despite my conflicting thoughts of you, Monticello is well. In recent weeks there have been no visitors but the birds and butterflies, yet some mornings, in the sleep-distorted moments before I wake completely, I imagine you are next to me. I reach over to touch your cheek, and my hand falls to the pillow. 

Trust me when I tell you, I miss you twice as much as I despised reading your horrific edits. 

Stubbornly yours,  
Thomas

\------------------------------------------------------------

Thomas, my dearest,

I must first apologize for annihilating your essays. I was in a furious mood that day and destroyed every item with which I came in contact. At least your work was not on the receiving end of the worst of my anger: that honor went to a certain proposed bill, which I ripped to shreds before an awed Congress. You are clever in observing that my faults are as numerous as stars, and first on that infinite list of sins is my inability to contain rage on days when it consumes me. If you were to send another piece of writing, I would do my best to edit it civilly, though I of course understand your reasoning for not wanting to take that risk a second time. 

Thomas, I tire of words. The paradox is this: there are never enough words to accurately express my emotions, yet I find myself buried in words, the wrong words, the mean and crude and insufficient ones, as I write these letters and crave what I am unable to attain. I argue for a strong nation bolstered by a central democracy, but I am ignored increasingly every minute I speak and every document I publish. Similarly, I write in tireless defense of my love for you despite distance, but find myself unable to defeat the longing within me. The dangerous shard of truth that punctures my argument? I prefer you to Congress, to meetings, to argumentation, and perhaps even to words. In addition, I become a tolerable person in the absence of Washington’s vicious cabinet. 

To be blunt, I believe some time at Monticello would do me an enormous amount of good, and so I have purchased a ticket. Your final paragraph did the most to convince me. If birds and butterflies truly serve as your sole companions, I believe it is my duty to rescue you from isolation-induced madness. It is my desperate hope, dear Thomas, that at least one of this young nation’s politicians retains his sanity. 

I send my love, as always. 

Yours very soon,   
Alexander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The style of AHam’s mom’s letter is based on the style of Maria Reynold’s letters to Hamilton. I figured that like Maria, Alex’s mom would write urgently and with little command of spelling, grammar, or punctuation. But at the end of the day, I don't know much about Rachel Faucette (other than her name…) so don't go citing this fic in your history essays.
> 
> 2\. I'm going on vacation next week! Unfortunately, that means no Internet access. So there will be a chapter 4, but you’ll have to make like Aaron Burr and wait for it. 
> 
> 3\. Thanks for reading this strange little story of mine!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I took a really long time to update. Thanks for being patient with me.

My dearest Alexander,

I so eagerly awaited your arrival that I refrained from writing for nearly a fortnight, expecting foolishly that all would be said upon our meeting in person. Yet following your promise to visit Monticello, I have heard nothing and received no guests. Your behavior has surpassed confusing, elevated to frustrating, and finally become entirely infuriating. I miss you, Alexander, but more than even that I despise your capability to toy with my emotions. Allow me to confess a well-kept secret: The only reason I have remained in Virginia for such an extended period has been a hope that our time together in the winter could be replicated in the spring. I dream of being with you here, at home among the other aspects of life I adore most. Then full of optimism, you pledge to satisfy my sole desire, only to disappear again, likely into politics, writing, and any infinite number of pursuits that are evidently more important to you than my petty wishes. 

I always knew that being with you would be difficult, but I never imagined you would go so far as to lie. At the moment, no national crisis or personal woe wears away at my sanity more than you. 

Yours unfortunately,  
Thomas 

\----------------------------------

Thomas, my dear,

Before you begin to loathe me with your entire being, allow me explain myself.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you I have not slept this week. The federal budget, which I expected to go through Congress with little to no conflict, was disputed in the Senate to the extent that the government almost shut down for a matter of days only so that we could come to a conclusion. This is a fact you would have known if you had so much as glanced at a newspaper, but I suppose staring out the window at your many peaceful acres of land has been a higher priority. Forgive me for my annoyance, but I will not be called a liar when my schedule has merely been usurped by the demanding office of Secretary of the Treasury. I am many things, Thomas - negligent, passionate, easily distracted, and extremely unreliable - but I am never a liar, and I would never purposely lie to you. 

I will see you as soon as I am able. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next year. 

Sleeplessly yours,   
Alexander 

\-------------------------

Alexander,

I find words insufficient to describe how much I abhor being patronized. Of course I read the newspaper, and of course I understand that holding a political office in the early stages of a nation’s development is comparable to voluntarily locking oneself in a prison cell. However, Washington is a kind warden, practically more in love with you than I am. Due to that convenient situation, you could have easily left for a day without risking loss of your position. If not during the hellish week of federal budget quarreling, you at the very least could leave now.

I know I am impatient and incessant, but that is only due to the fact that you broke a promise.

This is exhausting.

Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the people leaving kudos and sweet comments on this story - you are the best, seriously. Thank you. 
> 
> To the people who are rightfully sad and pissed at the way the story looks right now - remember it's always darkest just before the dawn, and I really like happy endings. 
> 
> To the people who are not aware that Lin-Manuel Miranda has a dog named Tobillo (which is ankle in Spanish), and that dog is so named because it came up to Lin's wife one day and started licking her ankle - now you know!


	5. Chapter 5

My dearest Alexander,

I so eagerly awaited your arrival that I refrained from writing for nearly a fortnight, expecting foolishly that all would be said upon our meeting in person. Yet following your promise to visit Monticello, I have heard nothing and received no guests. Your behavior has surpassed confusing, elevated to frustrating, and finally become entirely infuriating. I miss you, Alexander, but more than even that I despise your capability to toy with my emotions. Allow me to confess a well-kept secret: The only reason I have remained in Virginia for such an extended period has been a hope that our time together in the winter could be replicated in the spring. I dream of being with you here, at home among the other aspects of life I adore most. Then full of optimism, you pledge to satisfy my sole desire, only to disappear again, likely into politics, writing, and any infinite number of pursuits that are evidently more important to you than my petty wishes. 

I always knew that being with you would be difficult, but I never imagined you would go so far as to lie. At the moment, no national crisis or personal woe wears away at my sanity more than you. 

Yours unfortunately,  
Thomas 

\----------------------------------

Thomas, my dear,

Before you begin to loathe me with your entire being, allow me explain myself.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you I have not slept this week. The federal budget, which I expected to go through Congress with little to no conflict, was disputed in the Senate to the extent that the government almost shut down for a matter of days only so that we could come to a conclusion. This is a fact you would have known if you had so much as glanced at a newspaper, but I suppose staring out the window at your many peaceful acres of land has been a higher priority. Forgive me for my annoyance, but I will not be called a liar when my schedule has merely been usurped by the demanding office of Secretary of the Treasury. I am many things, Thomas - negligent, passionate, easily distracted, and extremely unreliable - but I am never a liar, and I would never purposely lie to you. 

I will see you as soon as I am able. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next year. 

Sleeplessly yours,  
Alexander 

\-------------------------

Alexander,

I find words insufficient to describe how much I abhor being patronized. Of course I read the newspaper, and of course I understand that holding a political office in the early stages of a nation’s development is comparable to voluntarily locking oneself in a prison cell. However, Washington is a kind warden, practically more in love with you than I am. Due to that convenient situation, you could have easily left for a day without risking loss of your position. If not during the hellish week of federal budget quarreling, you at the very least could leave now.

I know I am impatient and incessant, but that is only due to the fact that you broke a promise.

This is exhausting.

Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the people leaving kudos and sweet comments on my story - you are the best, seriously. Thank you.
> 
> To the people who are reasonably sad and pissed at how the story's looking right now - it's always darkest just before the dawn, and I really like happy endings.
> 
> To the people who are not aware that Lin-Manuel Miranda has a dog named Tobillo (which is ankle in Spanish) and that dog is so named because it came up to Lin's wife one day and started licking her ankle - NOW YOU KNOW.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go: three letters, only two of which will go unanswered. Enjoy!

My dear James, 

From what Hamilton and the Post tell me, the fabric of our nation threatens to tear at the seams in my absence. I expect by now, the country’s goal is to destroy and rebuild itself fifty time over each morning with or without any of us; what a place to govern! And what enmity it incites: as I look out over the rolling hills of Virginia and the luxurious peace of my home, I only dread returning to loud rooms where liberty poisons the air and democracy necessitates hostility.

Still I will return, as I must. Because certain plans I had for my time here have not come to fruition, I have no reason to stay. Additionally I believe you, dear Madison, may require my assistance in balancing Hamilton’s lofty aspirations with a more practical agenda. 

I leave tomorrow morning at dawn and will travel by coach. Inform the President of my intentions if you must, but may no one else be told. Particular members of the Federalist Party will be disappointed to hear of my coming to the capital, and my wish a reasonable majority of the time is to mitigate chaos rather than cause it. 

Sincerely, your ally and friend,   
T. Jefferson 

\-------------------------

Cher Thomas,

Tell me what I hear is not true? Tell me the news that floats through this torn country is but a rumor that should not bring worry to me? 

I will board a ship to France tomorrow, so I have no time to tend to repair your tattered life, mon ami. Yet I consider you and Alexander both close friends. When I hear you stomped out of a meeting because of a speech he made… and that this happened multiple times over a week-long period, that you fought over the national debt and then ran away… Thomas, my concern for the fate of America only grows! You have a personal problem with notre petit Alex in addition to your political issues. Talk to him, don't stomp out of meetings! The country cannot work like this, after a war like we fought. Put your affection for the man aside for the good of all, or embrace it, but choose one or the other. Then, attend cabinet meetings maturely. I say this out of respect for President Washington and all who have poured their whole lives into building the government to what it is today. A group that most definitely includes you, by the way. 

France is on the verge of war and I will not contact you again for a long while. But I pray you and Alexander both get over your childishness. 

Affectueusement,  
G. Lafayette 

\-------------------------

My dearest Thomas, 

You might be wondering why this letter was pushed under your door in the middle of the night, but you also may know me well enough to expect a gesture such as this after the terrific events of this afternoon’s cabinet meeting. My ramblings in person did only enough good to send you away, so I am trying again in writing to win you back. 

We knew from the beginning this was not going to be simple. I assume you recall our first kiss outside the capitol building? It was raining -- bad weather has been a recurring motif in our romantic encounters -- and we’d both stayed at work half the night, drafting arguments for and against America’s neutrality in the French Revolution. We were exhausted. I doubt I'd even slept the night before, and I was running on thin power of will, but you looked triumphant and determined somehow in the dim light as we walked. “We can fix this, you know,” you told me without looking at me. Your hair was stuck to your forehead, and I could hear your words clearly over the swelling storm. “If I can help it, we will find a way to assist France without sacrificing too much.” 

Then, after a meaningful pause, you asked why I was staring at you. I told you I only appreciated not walking home alone. 

“Alexander,” you said cautiously, stopping in your tracks as though you had just remembered something. “Why did you walk with me? You could have slept inside -- I know you do that. Or you could have left ten minutes later and not have been forced to deal with me at all. We are enemies, unless I've been interpreting the situation incorrectly.”

I hesitated. Sleep-deprived and half in love, watching the rain drip off your lower lip, I was not entirely certain why that night was different than past nights. I was only certain that I deeply appreciated not being alone; I told you that again, but you remained unsatisfied. 

We continued to walk, at a slower pace. The rain lulled for a moment but then the sky opened and began to pour. Several minutes later, you turned to glare at me again. 

“You’re still staring,” you insisted, struggling to make yourself heard over the rain.

I had not realized I was, but in response to your accusation I could only laugh. “Perhaps I enjoy looking at beautiful people, regardless of their obscene political leanings.”

You squinted into the rain, looking at me, seeming to wonder if you heard correctly. You looked so absurd, Thomas, that it would have been silly of me not to kiss the expression straight off your face - in an act, I might add, that a part of me had been aching to commit since you made your fashionably late entrance to Washington's cabinet. 

I did not expect what happened next. You understand, we were fully enemies at the time, enemies for whom walking side by side was in itself a significant accomplishment. Yet instead of pulling away in disgust, you kissed back. It must have been the lack of sleep, I remember thinking, or the rain, that made you return my affection so suddenly. Or perhaps you desperately missed the women in France and were using me as a temporary replacement. I considered these possibilities, then decided to forget them. I focused on your lips and the rain -- a magnificent combination, close to magical. When you pulled away at last, I was sorry. 

Five minutes more into our journey home, we were arguing about foreign policy, and you had slipped your fingers between mine. 

That night we did not discuss the obvious. We did not sit down and converse about the borderline preposterous nature of our relationship: two important men of government, belonging to opposing parties, turned lovers overnight. We did not call it a scandal, we did not guess as to what others would say. We only kissed in the rain, and argued, and both liked it that way. 

Thomas, do not misunderstand my intention: this letter is an apology. You may have been wrong to abandon so many meetings this past week, and extremely misguided when you pushed all the papers and books off of my desk this afternoon, but I was practically criminal to break my promise to meet you in Virginia. You have every right to be angry with me. I only ask that you let me in eventually, that you do not let the beautiful, complicated fact of our usually mutual affection slip first into hatred and finally into indifference. 

I want to kiss you in the rain again, Thomas. I want to argue and hold hands at the same time.

Hopefully yours,  
Alexander


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter features possibly anachronistic hot chocolate. Enjoy.

My dearest desperate Alexander, 

Spare yourself the trouble of speaking directly to me during this meeting. Though after your previous letter I cannot help but forgive your transgressions, silence is a virtue I have thoroughly enjoyed in recent days. So give me another day, one more, then I will let you muddle truth again with as much noise and idealism as you find yourself able to produce. 

More on my almost inevitable forgiveness: Hamilton, I fear you do not understand me completely. Of course I am angry with you frequently, and additionally I fear you may be the downfall of our nation with your big banks and big government, but despite these and other qualms I am certain I would kiss you not only in the rain, but also in a hurricane. Any storm our country faces we would weather side by side, our contrasting opinions and illogical romance two steady constants even while the rest threatened to drift away.

In other words, despite circumstance, it always kills me to ignore you. I hate when you act in a way that necessitates distance between us. And I am not writing of quiet, of peace, of the comfortable distance that softens animalistic passion into civil adoration and love -- that, we need. The distance that you forced when you broke your promise was of a different category, and it would have driven us apart for good if the apology had never come. 

Our fights scare me, Alexander. I hate when the space between us turns cold, and when time is no longer a countdown to when I can touch you again. 

But perhaps that is enough romance and emotion for one letter left on the desk of the Treasury Secretary at six in the morning. (More likely, it is far too much, but so is our very relationship.) On a more businesslike note, I will be at your apartment, nine p.m., an excuse for you to leave the office before you pass out from sheer exhaustion. 

See you in the evening, Alex. 

Love,  
Thomas 

P.S. Burn this letter or bury it as soon as it’s been read. I WILL blame you if it ends up in Charles Lee’s pathetic, cowardly hands. 

\----------------------------------

… 

\----------------------------------

JEFFERSON I HAVE BEEN KNOCKING FOR TEN MINUTES OPEN THE DOOR

\----------------------------------

You made the mistake of arriving eleven minutes early. What became of your obsession with working late?

\----------------------------------

THIS IS MY HOUSE YOU LOCKED ME OUT I AM A LAWYER I COULD SUE YOU

\----------------------------------

You, dear Alex, are not a lawyer. You are a glorified accountant trying to dominate the world. 

\----------------------------------

WHY ARE WE PASSING NOTES UNDER THE DOOR LIKE CHILDREN

\----------------------------------

Because silence is a virtue, one that you clearly have yet to learn, judging by the unfortunate volume of your knocking on my door.

\----------------------------------

IT IS MY DOOR NOT YOURS LET ME IN JEFFERSON

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Thirty more seconds. 

\----------------------------------

…

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This is the best hot chocolate I have ever tasted. You found the ingredients in my kitchen?

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It does not take much, Alexander. A stove, a pan, milk, chocolate bars. All luxuries you can afford.

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I never would have made it for myself.

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You are lucky to have me, then.

\----------------------------------

I appreciate you more when you are not breaking into my house. 

\----------------------------------

You were eleven minutes early. When did you become the type of man who arrives early to a social endeavor, instead of hours late? 

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I suppose it was the very moment you told me you would be at my apartment.

\----------------------------------

I see.

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Stop smiling like that, Thomas. When may we stop this game? Writing is a waste of precious time. All I want is to hold you. 

\----------------------------------

Ah, but "all I want is to hold you" is a sentiment which I would not possess written down in your penmanship to keep always and forever, unless I proposed the idea of writing letters rather than speaking to each other. Furthermore, we inevitably fight when speaking to each other. Thus I maintain that this is a fantastic idea.

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My experience has demonstrated that a certain danger is implicit in keeping intimate letters always and forever. In addition I believe we have both learned that the medium by which we communicate cannot hinder our tendency to disagree. 

 

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Though all of those statements are true, I care more that for years to come, I will have this conversation to read for my own entertainment. 

 

\----------------------------------

I changed my mind. 

\----------------------------------

About what?

\----------------------------------

This hot chocolate is not the best I have ever tasted. I have definitely tasted hot chocolate better than this. 

\----------------------------------

Yet if it were not for me, you would not be drinking hot chocolate at all. 

\----------------------------------

Thomas… 

\----------------------------------

Alexander.

\----------------------------------

Have I given you a tour of the house yet? If not, I have been impolite. I know you will find my quarters especially to be quite-

\----------------------------------

Alexander. I know that you want to do more than show me your room. As intriguing as that sounds, I wish to remain by the fire for a while longer. Good things come to those who wait, as the saying goes.

\----------------------------------

The only insect who says that is Aaron Burr.

\----------------------------------

Hush. Listen to the fire. Enjoy the silence.

\----------------------------------

I want to hold you, Thomas, for the whole night.

 

\----------------------------------

You will. But sit next to me first. 

\----------------------------------

This is why I love and hate you simultaneously.

 

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Love wins in the end, though, do you agree? 

 

\----------------------------------

I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty short fic but let me tell you, quite a bit of thought and research and hesitancy was thrown into it. I mostly owe a million thanks to future Secretary of State TheImmortalTrio, who is the reason I read and write fanfiction at all.


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